Fool on the Hill
by auroraziazan
Summary: Graduation day of one of Hogwarts most famous classes in history. Time to strike, and defeat the most powerful fool in the world.
1. Prologue

Albus Dumbledore's eyes filled with worry as he saw the shadows appear on the edge of the forest. Good, good, that's exactly what we want. And in the crowd of parents there, Lucius and the others had positioned themselves on the far side, exactly according to plan. The Mudblood girl is giving her speech, and Dumbledore is hesitating, too proud of his star pupil to bring himself to interrupt her, even though he knows we've come. I have no pity for the fool, of course, for he should know better than that. The crowd is beginning to notice our forms, and beginning to murmur in hushed undertones so as not to disturb the girl. I almost hate to bring and end to Albus Dumbledore's last moment of glory in the eyes of the world, but soon they shall see him as I do. A fool, a great old fool who has raised himself on top of a hill but is unable to cope with it crumbling around him.


	2. Fool on the Hill

Fool on the Hill

  
  


The students won't go near him. I'm a bit surprised, actually, I thought that some of the older ones at least would find it hard to resist going to him now, but maybe there is some value in empty threats after all. I wouldn't really do anything if they tried to talk to him. He doesn't reply, doesn't move, just stays there on the little hill he climbed to when the dais fell from beneath him. Or perhaps the great Dumbledore didn't mean so much to his students, and none think he's even worth there time any more. They can see that he's just a fool. I have gone to him several times, in the night, given him false confessions and begged for help to turn my life around. But he doesn't flinch, or even blink, and he never gives an answer. 

  
  


DAY AFTER DAY,   
ALONE ON A HILL,  
THE MAN WITH THE FOOLISH GRIN  
IS KEEPING PERFECTLY STILL;  
BUT NOBODY WANTS TO KNOW HIM,  
THEY CAN SEE THAT HE'S JUST A FOOL,  
AND HE NEVER GIVES AN ANSWER.  
  
I know what he thinks of me. It's what he's always thought of me, because he is no judge of character that runs deep. He calls me a fool, a fool who has set himself on a hill, and perhaps I am. Perhaps I am a fool to have counseled the parents as I did. But it seemed then that as long as we could protect the children's lives, they would be able to handle what he threw at them, and eventually fling it back all the harder. Many good people died that day. Good, strong people whose loss will be felt by the Cause. But I'm not sure if the Cause even exists any longer. Certainly no one has spoken of it here, for I still know much that goes on. Some days, though, someone will come out and come closer, as if they really wanted to come speak to me, and we'll look into each other's eyes and I will take their anguish and the despair away, and do my best to give comfort. Yet even those few seem to be slipping away, and there remain many who refuse to look at me. They believe I have failed them. Perhaps they're right, but what else could I have done but what I did? Fighting him and giving my life would have done nothing, for he would not have hesitated to kill me then. So I have chosen my punishment. To stay here until the fates claim me, seeing light slip away and watching the world go on without it.

  
  


BUT THE FOOL ON THE HILL  
SEES THE SUN GOING DOWN,  
AND THE EYES IN HIS HEAD  
SEE THE WORLD SPINNING 'ROUND.  
  
If he was ever in his right mind, and I often doubt that, he is no longer. He's started moving again. He lays on his back, staring into the clouds, and repeats odd sets of motions. He even tries to talk sometimes. I suppose he couldn't bear keeping quiet any more, man of a thousand voices that he once was. It alarmed me the first few times I saw it out my window, and I sent Wormtail out to listen. But they were nothing more than long discourses on lemon drops, wool socks, and the like. Sometimes he isn't even speaking, though his mouth moves all the same in his silence. But no one else pays attention to it. And so I let him go on, let him recite A History in Elvish or tell the world that I can be killed by drinking wolfsbane and garlic. Because no one listens to him anymore.

  
  


WELL ON THE WAY,

HEAD IN A CLOUD,

THE MAN OF A THOUSAND VOICES

TALKING PERFECTLY LOUD;

BUT NOBODY EVER HEARS HIM

OR THE SOUND HE APPEARS TO MAKE,

AND HE NEVER SEEMS TO NOTICE.  
  
Tom stopped paying attention to me almost a month ago. He no longer pauses by the

window that looks out onto the lawn where I stay. Some of the children who used to try to reach me out here look from those windows now. I wish they would come down and talk to me. Or even listen to me. I have so much that I could tell them if anyone would listen. I spent a week showing anyone who would watch how to ballroom dance. I can feel the life is lost from the school. They have stopped the visits to Hogsmeade, I believe because some of my loyal supporters remain there. Flying lessons continue, two basic instruction classes for all the first years, but no Quidditch. It will be winter soon, but I don't imagine we will have any Christmas snowball fights. Ginny Weasley came out yesterday. She seemed to be going somewhere with purpose, but she stopped for a while to look at me. I had been trying to recite Hogwarts, A History to myself, but I stopped when I realized she was waiting for something. I launched into as best as I could come up with a biography of Tom Riddle. Perhaps she will make some use of it, for I can no longer. I have been out here since June and it must be early November now. I'm not sure how much more of this I'll be able to take.

  
  


BUT THE FOOL ON THE HILL

SEES THE SUN GOING DOWN,

AND THE EYES IN HIS HEAD

SEE THE WORLD SPINNING 'ROUND.

  
  


The fool is still there. I'd think something would have happened to him by now. He doesn't have his wand, and I'm sure he hasn't been eating. It's cold out there, almost freezing at night, and he remains on the ground in his summer robes. No one brings him their share of warm food, and no one offers their cloak. I am sure he will not be able to last the winter like this. No one watches him anymore, and no one goes and listens to him. I caught the few who used to, and they paid for it dearly. As for the rest, well, they can see what he wants to do. And what he wants of them. They know they can't listen to him, because as long as they don't fight, nothing will happen to them. But if they are doing things that I would not approve of, and are caught, they are punished. He doesn't seem to notice that no one listens. Or the cold, or the hunger he must feel. He goes on with his discourses, his games, his dancing. Even if he left now, he is far from the competent, powerful man they would suppose and need him to be. And soon they'd realize it, and realize that they had no use for the crazy old fool either, and he'd be turned out to rant somewhere much less friendly than Hogwarts.

  
  


AND NOBODY SEEMS TO LIKE HIM,

THEY CAN TELL WHAT HE WANTS TO DO,

AND HE NEVER SHOWS HIS FEELINGS.  
  
I don't think I woke up yesterday, though I can tell my eyes never closed. I did wake this 

morning, and it has never been harder for me to move. I stood up, though, and spent ten minutes watching the world spin around me. It will snow tonight. The first snowfall of the season, actually, but I doubt any of the students will be awake to see it. Those I am able to observe on their way to the greenhouses or the paddock appear on the edge of exhaustion, as if all their waking hours were spent at hard work, after which they can do no more than drag themselves to bed. I don't know if I will be able to get up tomorrow, and if I can't then I surely won't the day after. I have become frail, and not having my wand has made my magic weak. I wonder what difference it will make to the world if I stop waking up. I don't think anyone listens to me anymore, though I keep telling stories just in case. I fear I could tell the world how to make the bloody Sorcerer's Stone and they would refuse to hear.

  
  


BUT THE FOOL ON THE HILL  
SEES THE SUN GOING DOWN,  
AND THE EYES IN HIS HEAD  
SEE THE WORLD SPINNING 'ROUND.  


I'm not sure if I'm awake or not. My eyes are still open, but I appear to be spinning in circles. I couldn't be awake. I know there's snow on the ground in the real world, and it's not this warm.

  


OH - OH-OH-OH-OH-OH - OH-OH,  
AND ROUND AND ROUND AND ROUND AND ROUND AND ROUND.  


I must be awake now. Someone's talking, and I hear them. They're talking about me, I think. They're saying something about me. I think they're saying I'm dead. That's foolish. I can't be dead. Not if I'm hearing them say it. I don't think I'll listen to them any more, or I might start believing it. They don't sound like they miss me, though. They sound . . . angry, perhaps. Angry at what, I can't tell, but maybe it's me they're angry at. That I seem dead, when I oughtn't. My eyes aren't moving, but I watch them arguing about what to do with me. I don't want to sit and listen to them argue.

  
  


HE NEVER LISTENS TO THEM,

HE KNOWS THAT THEY'RE THE FOOLS,

THEY DON'T LIKE HIM.  
  
They've propped me up against the castle walls. I think they intend to wait until 

tomorrow to figure out what to do with me. That's fine. I can watch the sunset. I haven't seen the sunset in ages. Not since the beginning of winter. It's beautiful, an august blaze of glory over smooth, snow-covered hills, and the world starts spinning again as the sun slips over the horizon.

  
  


THE FOOL ON THE HILL

SEES THE SUN GOING DOWN,

AND THE EYES IN HIS HEAD

SEE THE WORLD SPINNING 'ROUND.

  
  
  
  


Disclaimer: I do not own Tom Riddle, Albus Dumbledore, or Hogwarts School. The song belongs is by the Beatles, and I believe is property of Michael Jackson. But what he doesn't know can't hurt him.


End file.
